like light from inlaid faux pearls, they are not mine
perhaps they belong to you, left behind by the whore called Bella.
These exquisite nights recalling sugarcane groves or thin palmettos
breathing Pearl River mist, they are not mine
perhaps they belong to you, hidden behind the back of the moon.
These plains that have never been marked on any map
and on which only half-built constructions rise, they are not mine
but belong to him and her, masked mendicants with silver bowls.
Poem by Liu Waitong
